


We Were Once More Than We Are

by Flutiebear



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, F/M, Mystery, Oral Sex, Pre-Canon, Sexual Content, Tranquil, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-02
Updated: 2011-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-24 06:26:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutiebear/pseuds/Flutiebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emeric and Mharen finally express what's been left unsaid between them all these years. But a confession is only the beginning. Set in 9:20 Dragon, in the pre-Meredith Gallows. Fill for a k!meme prompt. Rated so very, very M.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nothing Shall Ever Be Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Emeric's my favorite bit character from Dragon Age 2: part Philip Marlowe, part Sam Spade, all BAMF. I always wondered what would drive a man to search for a colleague for four years, long after everyone else stopped caring and presumed her dead. Was it just Templar duty? Or something more?

Tonight, Emeric finds Mharen—as usual—in the Elemental Libraries, a warren of interlocking cells on the Western wing of the Gallows.

It's quiet here this late, what with most of the Enchanters at Feastdays and most of the apprentices in their own beds (or close enough). Tall brass falcons loom down from the dark gables, and it feels a little like being in the Viscount's Keep, if Threnhold ever let his guards sleep.

At the end of a long table she sits, holding court among a crowd of precariously-stacked books, a single lamp flickering atop the tallest pile. If she hears him as he clanks into the room, she makes no indication.

She frowns a little in concentration, and he can't help but notice how the lines show a little more these days, the flickering lamplight caressing new wrinkles on her forehead, at the corners of her eyes. The years of work and study and herding apprentices like halla are finally taking their toll on her fair Anderfellian features, but it doesn't seem to bother her and it doesn't seem to bother him—indeed, the more lines her skin seems to cultivate, the more familiar to him she becomes.

He thinks of when he first came here, when he'd first met her: in this very spot, in fact. She'd been surrounded by books then, too, hugging one to her chest like a pillow, and she'd told him, ever so sweetly and matter-of-factly, that he had his pauldrons on backwards, and did he know that this was where they'd hung the arsonists once, decades ago?

They'd shared an indecent giggle at the irony of it all—the fire studies now housed where countless arsonists had been executed – and when he'd looked at her pimple-dusted cheeks and her straw-like hair, that's when he _knew_ he'd made the right choice; that, no matter what Father had said, his had indeed been a Calling and not an obsession—and that he, a boy of barely twenty, swimming in his backwards tin suit, had come home at last.

But that too was decades ago. He is older now, but when he looks at Mharen, his truest friend and his most precious charge, he wonders if in fact he is any wiser.

He knows he shouldn't be here—but then again, neither should she, not at this late hour, long after all the Libraries should have closed for the night.

But here she is.

And here he is.

And they are alone.

Emeric walks toward her, drawn by a pull he can't resist. The truth is, of course, he could never resist her: Those warm, honey eyes; that too-strong jaw; the moles dotting her temples; the scar along her left eyebrow she got from an errant spirit bolt when she was seventeen. All of it, he knows it all; over the decades he has memorized her face as surely as he has the Chant of the Light, and whether she knows it or not it has helped keep his demons at bay, both the real ones and the ones only he can hear.

She squints and turns a sheet of parchment over, and he allows himself a single moment to watch the quick flick of her hands and to revel, to imagine. He likes her hands best of all: Those long, clever fingers that carve the air and conjure the elements from nothing, the pale skin at odds with the power that ripples just under the surface. Hers are the hands of a lifelong scholar, a scientist, a theorist, and yet as a mage, she is proof that life still experiments with itself: A creature of fire and ice and light and infinite possibility, of all things primal and deep. It's true of all mages, to be sure, but it's a little truer of her, and when he watches her hands do their work, somehow the spark of him comes alive inside its tin cage.

At his approach, she smiles teasingly, but does not look up. If he hadn't been so fixated on her hands, he would've missed it as she slid a small sheaf of parchment under another.

"You're as stealthy as a Stonefist, Tin Man," she says fondly. "You'd wake even an Archdemon."

"All the better to strike fear in the hearts of maleficarum, Firestarter," he replies, removing his helmet. With a gauntleted hand, he shakes out his sweat-damp, grey-streaked hair as best he can and sidles up behind her shoulder. Not for the first time, he wishes he could just pull out a chair and sit with her like a normal human being, like one of her fellow mages, instead of hovering behind her like a golem—but the armor won't allow it. "So what Thedas-shattering matter requires your attention at this late hour?"

"Threnhold says he's had _sightings_ at the Bone Pit again," she says, her weariness evident. She leans a little toward him, her slender hands braced on the table, and now he can see new gray hairs mixing in among the blond at her roots.

"Another Blight in a teapot," he sighs. "The man's completely paranoid."

"Perhaps." She stands, and as she eases a crink from her neck, a smile tugs at the corners of her lips. "But he does have a point - You never hear about the restless dead wandering around Starkhaven or Tantervale. _Their_ corpses keep the courtesy of staying dead."

He chuckles. "You know it's most likely blood magic, of course. And not a Blight."

"I know. But we are so near the Deep Roads, and Kirkwall's such a—" she searches for the correct term, " _quirky_ place." She sighs heavily. "I _must_ investigate it. You understand."

He nods. He gets it—he, more than anyone. If she tried to let it go, she'd never be able to sleep, never be able to rest, until she'd returned to the question. Yes, how very well he understands: He is the same way.

Obsessive, some call it. Mharen had always preferred _persistent._

She yawns dramatically and pushes away from the table. "I suppose you're here to tell me to go back to my quarters like a good girl, no?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," he says, smirking. "But you should take pity on Errol. He needs to start his chores in here soon." She stretches out her arms behind her, and the motion flutters her hair a little. Suddenly he can smell her: Ink and parchment and the arcane, mixed with faint traces of the lilac soap she imports all the way from Val Royeaux. To him the scent is just as familiar as the armor he straps on every morning, and just as comforting. "The poor man's just standing out there, waiting."

She frowns at him. "You know, for a Tranquil, he is rather neurotic."

"Are we sure he's Tranquil?" For a moment, just a moment, he has the urge to touch her, to run his fingers through her hair. But then he gets the image of her grey-blonde curls snagging in his gauntlets, and it makes him clench his fist tighter instead. "Maybe he just got the tattoo in his wild youth."

She chuckles. It echoes hollowly in the empty chamber. "Come on, Tin Man. Walk me back to my quarters?"

"Of course."

With a loud scrape, she pushes back the chair before he can help her out of it, rolls up her parchments and leads him from the library. When they pass Errol, she nods to him fondly and pats him on the shoulder. He does not flinch from her touch, but neither does he smile back.

They walk in companionable silence to her chamber. Like all Enchanters, she gets a cell to herself; and Mharen's lucky in that hers even has a small window carved out of the top, like a porthole, although she likes to joke that it's probably just left over from a previous resident's escape attempt—although mage or prisoner, she's never clarified.

Tonight, moonlight seems to struggle especially hard to shine through it, casting weird shadows on the walls and Mharen's face.

He watches her silently putter around the room, lighting her desk lamp with a tired waggle of her hand, picking up books and placing them there, smoothing down the sheets.

"You shouldn't light the lamp with magic," he says. "Not with so many books in here."

"Why waste the oil?" She turns to face him, and the weak flame casts teasing, soft shadows across her eyes and mouth. "You look fussy, Tin Man. What's on your mind? Worried a dragon's going to swoop in here and fetch me for supper?"

"I hope not." A low chuckle escapes his lips. He takes a single step toward her, and already he feels enormous in the room, a giant crowding her space. "Swooping is bad, or so I hear."

"Sometimes I wonder," she says, still smiling, but her gaze flickers up to her window before returning back to him. He frowns, clenching his fist. Mharen had always been loyal to the Circle, but Emeric knows that even the most loyal of mages have _thoughts_ about the outside sometimes—one of the reasons, he knows, the First Enchanter had pushed Threnhold so hard to allow mages their little holiday performances in the first place.

Emeric tries not to resent her for these flights of fancy, because he knows that at this age, that's all they'll ever be. But it is tough, and besides, he's getting older, too.

"So," she says after a time. "What was it that sent you looking for me?"

"I—" He wonders how to broach the subject delicately. But delicate has never been his strong suit, especially around her. "I just wanted to—to check on you. I heard you weren't going to the Feastdays celebrations."

"No." Her face is unreadable in this low light. "Obviously, I didn't."

"But didn't you say you were looking forward to 'escaping' the Gallows for a bit?"

"I suppose I was." She waves her hand dismissively, but does not look at him. "But I convinced Orsino to take my place. Let that git prance about for some stuffed-shirt nobles for once. I'm tired of it."

"That's quite a change from yesterday," he says, taking another step closer to her. He's close now, in this small room. Too close. Or maybe it's the walls that are too close, or her. "Is something wrong?"

"No—well, it's just—" She turns from him and shuffles some papers on her desk. In this low light, she can't possibly know what's on them; Emeric gets the distinct impression that she's only doing it so that she won't have to look at him. "I'm too _old_ for it anymore. Any of it."

"You're never too old to show off for nobility," he says teasingly.

She laughs, a dry, brittle thing without any real warmth. "Perhaps. Even still, tonight I'd just as rather stay here instead."

"With your books."

"With—my books, yes."

"Mharen," he says, taking one last step to close the gap between them. He's barely an arm's length from her—Guylian would scold him, call this distance "within the cone of fraternization", and honestly, he doesn't know what's gotten into him; he only knows that she needs the closeness, needs him. And he would give her anything, the Gallows itself, if she needed it. "Talk to me."

She sighs.

"Tomorrow's my nameday, Emeric," she says at last, her back to him. "I'll be thirty-eight."

"Congratulations," he replies. "You're older than smokeless coal."

She laughs again, warmer this time, but then stops herself. "It's just—Emeric, I'm _old._ There's so much yet to do, so much left unaccomplished. And I'll never see Val Royeaux, or Weisshaupt, or Denerim, or at this rate, even Cumberland. I'll be a Gallows mage for life."

He places a hand on her shoulder. Dangerous, he knows, but he can't stop himself—doesn't _want_ to stop himself. They are alone, the only two people for a thousand paces, and if he feels the urge to comfort a lifelong friend, then by the Maker, he'll do it.

"Weisshaupt is cold, and you hate winter," he says, and when he sees her smirk, he takes it as encouragement. "Val Royeaux is teeming with nobles. You can't even stand the ones here. And, honestly, what would a firestarter like you want out of a backwater like Denerim anyway?"

She shakes away the smile, unwilling to be comforted. "It's the principle of the thing. I like the Gallows, I like my research, I like—" her voice catches, "—my friends. But I'm limited in what I can do here, what I can see."

Emeric wonders what has gotten into her. She has never spoken like this before—not to him, not to anyone, to his knowledge. He tries not to take it personally, but finds somehow, he can't help it.

"Besides," she continues, sighing, "For once in my life, I wish I didn't have to live in books alone. To see new places—Maker's breath, to cook for myself, or shop alone in Lowtown, or—" she swallows loudly, "—to fall in love."

"All of those things are overrated," he says in a voice that he hopes is lighter than how he feels.

She turns to him, smirking bitterly. "Even the last?"

He can't—won't—meet her eyes. "I wouldn't know."

She cocks her head. "Wouldn't you?"

"I—" He swallows too now, through a strange thickness that has suddenly invaded his throat. "Templars don't get a lot of time for courting."

"Ah. I see." Her voice is barely a whisper now, and before he can control it, his thoughts swerve to how that whisper might feel against his earlobe, against his lips.

He clears his throat. "Even if we did—it wouldn't matter."

"Why?"

Emeric shrugs. "I have everything I've ever needed right here."

She goes very, very still.

"Emeric," she says softly, her lips barely moving. Her eyes dart to the window, on her books, on the insignia on his chestplate, anywhere but on him.

"How do I—?" Her voice trails away into a sigh. "I've wasted so many years. Too many years. A madness bubbles under this city, spreading like a cancer, and what have I done?" She gestures vaguely, but vehemently. "I've been playing keep-away with my tin man."

He doesn't have time to think about what she's said because suddenly she is standing close, so very close to him, her green-speckled honey eyes serioius and honest, evoking all the thoughts left unspoken between them for so many years. She touches her slender fingers to his cheek, her thumb dragging slowly against his lower lip, and he feels himself stirring in his armor, his cock suddenly awake and pressing against the confines of cool metal.

Startled, he pulls back slightly. This isn't happening. This is a trick of fatigue, of his fevered mind; Mharen is sick, she is delirious, she is unwell—

She's saying something, but he has no idea what; he knows it's important but he can't decipher it, not with her so close, so near. He wants to pull back, knows he should for her sake if not his, but he can't, not with her soft mouth so near and her breath hot upon his mouth and stubble.

 _For there is no darkness, no death either, in the Maker's Light,_ he recites, seeking the solace of the Chant to soothe him, calm him, free him from these troublesome thoughts. _And nothing He has wrought shall ever be lost._

"Mharen—" He tries. He honestly tries.

 _Nothing shall ever be lost._

"Ssh," she hushes him, drapes her arms around him and pulls herself against his armor.

He raises a gloved hand to touch her hair, her cheek, even as he squeezes his eyes shut, shaking from the effort of restraining himself. He tries the Chant again, repeating it over and over in his head; his favorite mantra, his personal motto - maybe the familiar can keep him focused, give him the courage to resist this: everything he'd ever desired, but never could admit.

But he can feel the heat radiating from her, seeping in through the chinks in his armor, drawing him in, promising him so much more.

"Emeric," she says again, and the weight of her voice opens his eyes. On her lips, his name sounds simultaneously like a benediction and a warning; he feels her voice vibrate against his armor, into his ribcage and down his spine.

"I'm too old to play coy any more," she whispers. "And you're too old to want it. Let's live a little before—before we're only dust and bones."

She looks up at him, waits for him to say something, but he can't trust his voice, can't trust that this is actually real and not some demon's trick. Everything bubbles inside him, the years of worry and memories and reservations, and still Mharen is there, waiting, luminous and strong and alive, gazing up at him with eyes full of all the things that remain; all the things to remind him of the divide between who he is and what he must be.

"Is this real?" he whispers against her lips, when he finally finds his voice.

"It's the only thing that is," she says thickly, and, at last, kisses him.


	2. We Are Once More Than We Were

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly: Smut! Quite a bit of it, too.

Something inside him fractures and breaks.

Maybe this is only a Feastday prank, one that will end once the moon reaches its zenith—but he doesn't care, because he's ached for her for twenty years, dreamt of this moment for as long as he's been a Templar, and a man. And if it's only for tonight, then so be it: together, they can be— _no, they already are_ – more than what they once were, more than they'd ever be apart.

His arms surge around her and his mouth crashes against hers; a needful confusion of lips and tongue and teeth. He pulls her close, and from low in the back of his throat emerges a moan that makes her wriggle closer still against his breast-plate.

She tastes of peaches and wine, and something else too, something metallic and harsh— _Lyrium,_ Emeric realizes with a start. When he recognizes the taste, it's all he can do to resist tossing her across the desk and taking her, _consuming her_ , plunging into her again and again until they both scream out their climaxes in hoarse, ravaged gasps.

As it is, he can't help but inhale sharply and tangle his gauntlets in her hair, the metal catching a little, as he knew it would, but she doesn't seem to care. It just seems to incite her more, her hot palms and clever fingers scrabbling against the back of his neck, seeking warmth and purchase—anything man, and not metal, to hold onto.

Mharen pulls back—barely an inch, just far enough away to move her lips against his without losing contact.

"Take this off," she breathes, hot and wet, and thumps his breastplate with a finger.

Emeric's breath hitches. A kiss is one thing—and oh what a thing it is-but no matter what his body screams for now, no matter how many times he has heard her utter those exact words as he roams the Fade, he is still a Templar and she still a mage and… well, he's been with women, of course, but never quite like this, never one as _important_ as she.

"Mharen?" He grabs her shoulders, gently but firmly, but does not push her away. "Are you sure?"

He feels her frown, rather than sees it, and lightly she lowers her head, touches her forehead to his chin. Her brows knit against his stubble. She exhales, long and low.

"You are—" Desire and frustration strain her voice in equal measure. "You are such a silly old Tin Man."

She resumes kissing his cheek, his jaw, but this time he finds the strength to resist.

"No, Mharen," he says, thumbs rubbing her shoulders in small circles. "Tell me this is what you want. That this is alright. I need to—I need to hear it."

"Yes, you idiot," she growls. "Now take your armor off before I have to burn the straps off myself."

Simple, coarse, honest—that's all the permission he needs from her, all he ever expected, and he grins against her teeth as he hastily and awkwardly pulls off his gauntlets behind her back. Then he leans back, tugs for a few desperate moments at the straps of his pauldrons and bezagews—thank goodness Guylain had the sense to upgrade their plate to quick-release—and unhooks his breastplate. When he hears the practiced snap, feels the metal give and sag off his skin and the rush of cool air caressing his slightly-damp tunic, Emeric nearly sobs in relief.

He barely shrugs the plate off—doesn't even bother with his greaves—before embracing her again, tracing a wet path from the corner of her mouth, to her neck to her earlobe, his tongue yearning to taste every inch of that intoxicating, lilac-and-lyrium laced skin.

His rough, calloused palms clutch at her Circle robes, wringing the trapped heat of her from the thin cotton. She is against him now, all yielding breasts and silk-soft arms; and the sensation sends a frission along his spine. He's as hard now, hard as a mountain, harder than he can ever remember.

She pushes against him urgently, guiding him toward the bed with the jut of her hips. He grinds himself into her belly. She mewls into his mouth a little.

And grinds right back.

Together they collapse on the bed, him on his back, her straddling his waist. Her robes have hitched up, and he can feel the wet heat between her thighs pressing on his trousers. The soft, ancient mattress smells like her, all of her: the ink, the arcane, the ghosts of lilacs. When she bends to kiss him he inhales long and deep and never wants to leave this spot again.

But suddenly Mharen sits up, bracing her hands on his chest.

"Your turn, Emeric."

Her body still lets its intentions be known – her hands knead his skin, her hips still roll against his—but she won't look at him. Gently she worries at her bottom lip with her teeth, and he's transfixed by the small motion.

"What?" he gasps.

"Tell me—tell me that you want me." He wants to kiss that lip so she'll stop biting it. "I need to hear it too. Even if—Just the once."

How does he tell her that she'd always had him in her clever fingers, that she'd never needed his permission? That the demons always knew that he would have given up his shield, his Calling itself, in exchange for this night and this very moment—a few precious hours where he could be more than her friend or protector, where he could just _be_ , and be with _her,_ man to woman, human to human.

"I've always wanted this," he says lamely, burying his head in her neck, grabbing at her robe, her hair again. "Always wanted you."

She moans – in relief or desire, he can't exactly tell – and down his kisses trail, feverishly tracing her collarbone, her chest, the swell of her breast. With his teeth, he tugs gently at her clothed nipple, feeling it rise and harden in his mouth, and reveling in her delighted gasp as she rakes her fingers through his hair, scraping, holding him in place.

He looks up.

Her eyes are half-closed.

She looks like she's at prayer.

Mharen opens her eyes, smiles down at him.

Honest. Genuine.

Unafraid.

She bends over him, and he can feel his cock digging into the hot space between her thighs, his erection straining his thin undertrousers. She scrabbles at his waist-knot, and when her hands brush against his hardness, he sucks in a sharp breath and bucks upwards, aching, anticipating—but there is something important, something he has forgotten, something that needs to be taken care of first—

"Greaves," he moans.

She does not stop.

Emeric grabs her waist, digging his fingers into her flesh to still her, marveling at the soft curves and how perfectly they fit against his palms. "Mharen, my greaves. And my boots."

Finally she looks up from her task, and rolls her eyes.

"You wear entirely too many pieces of armor, Tin Man," she says, shifting off of him impatiently.

"Not all of us get the luxury of robes," he pants, fingering the clasps at his shins with no small amount of urgency and wondering how he's finding any words with which to speak at all. "Too tough to fend off sword attacks."

"Because Thedas is just so full of mages that know how to use a sword."

The first greave gives, but the other is stubborn.

"A Stonefist, then." The other greave gives, and he impatiently kicks off his sabatons.

"Silly Templar," she says, laughing as she throws – _launches_ \- herself back on top of him, wriggling zealously against his hips. "Didn't you know? That's what the hats are for."

In one fluid flick of her arms, Mharen yanks off her robes.

Her breast band is plain, her smalls… _small_ , her body supple and scarred and pale and more perfectthan he ever dared imagine _._ He runs his palms along the curve of her thighs, her hips, her ribcage; with his thumb he traces a small constellation of moles just underneath her breast. She sighs in pleasure, squirms against his cock. She is smooth and warm. He didn't expect her to be this _warm_.

She leans down again to taste his neck and earlobe, breath hot and urgent in his ear, while he fumbles with the back enclosure of her breastband. When it releases, _finally_ , he can't help but grin foolishly, like a boy.

He sneaks a hand between them and rolls one nipple gently between his finger and thumb, and feels oddly proud when she groans so loudly it makes him flinch slightly.

Then she too slips her hand between them, down his trousers, brushing those clever fingers against his tangle of hair and his muscled thigh.

When she finds his cock, she smiles against his lips and gives him a not-so-gentle squeeze.

"Mharen," he gasps.

Her grin widens and she shifts, and then—oh _Maker_ something dances along his cock; a warm, sinful tingle, wrapping itself around him, coiling, swirling, hot, good—so very, very _good_.

"You like that?" she whispers.

He grunts.

"Sparklefingers," she snickers, and waggles her other hand.

He groans like a dying man, writhing at her touch, his cock throbbing and insistent and completely at the mercy of her adept, sparkling, _perfect_ hands.

"Again?" he asks— _begs_ —and she does it again and it's all he can do to not explode all over her like a teenager.

She smirks.

"That's nothing. Wait 'til you see why they call me Firestarter."

"Wait," _I don't want to think of those hands on other mages, on other men,_ "I thought I was the only one who called you that."

"Well," she shifts off of him, pulls his trousers down with one solid yank. "It's more appropriate than you know."

He frowns at the sudden image of her bed linens aflame. "Not the sexiest thing you've ever said."

"Spoken like a true Templar," she taunts.

But the softness in her eyes belies her words as she looks down at his hips and takes in the sight of him. His cock – exposed, hard, flushed - bobs in anticipation of her touch.

She leans down, pressing herself against him like a shield. His cock digs into the space between her thighs, seeking the heat, and his hands skirt up her arms, her legs, her breasts, anywhere, everywhere he can.

Gently, she kisses his chest, rubbing her cheek against the fine down smattering his ribs and belly. At once he's reminded of Errol's kittens, particularly the runt who rubs against his leg whenever stormclouds gather in the east. So he holds Mharen there for a moment, relishing the weight of her against his chest, hair fanning against his shoulders, smile against his heartbeat.

But she is restless. She gently mouths his breastbone, nips at his nipples. One by one, she kisses his ribs. She runs her tongue along the scars that tattoo his belly, the jut of his hip bone, the curve of his inner thigh.

And then.

Then she buries her face in the space between his thighs, resting her nose in the swirling thatch of greying hair there, and _breathes_. She inhales him like incense, like something sacred and essential. The act makes him a little uncomfortable, self-conscious even, but at the same time, her breath fluttering against the sensitive hairs there causes him to toss his head back and beg incoherently for _more, please more_ in the half-forgotten tongue of his fatherland.

He threads his hands in her hair and pulls her up, shoving his lips against hers, not so much a kiss as a wet and insistent collision. But she pulls away before too long, and resumes her position between his legs. Her swollen lips tickle the thin skin at the base of his cock, her breath hot on his balls.

Emeric had never thought it possible to be so aroused and not ignite from the sheer power of it. But then again, he'd thought many things impossible about Mharen, and she's defied his expectations at every turn.

Already he's so painfully, desperately hard for her, as feels himself rub indecently against her cheek and jaw. Then she turns her head slightly and with a long, languid stroke of the tongue, licks him from base to tip, swirling the head in her lips easily, lazily, joyfully.

His hands scrabble against the thin cotton blanket, clawing for purchase. She licks him again with the broad part of her tongue, running along the underside as if it concealed her favorite sweet, one she has waited so very long to savor.

"Delicious," she whispers against his cock, her breath hot and moist and inviting.

He catches her gaze.

"Beautiful," he sighs.

She pauses mid-lick, her breath catching.

But her hesitation is brief, because the next moment, she takes him into her mouth, just the tip, her lips making a tight seal around the ridge. Emeric struggles to remain still, and when she flicks her tongue across his slit, he bucks wildly, nearly sobbing; arching his hips, he tears at the sheets and moans her name.

Mharen braces her thumbs in his hip line to hold him down, her nails digging in as she takes the length of him in, her nose against his belly, and then she sucks him, _oh Maker-_

She sucks him earnestly, indelicately, loud, squelching noises escaping her lips. She is wet, she is hungry, she is tireless. As she descends, her hair brushes along the tops of his thighs, and when she pulls up, she sometimes licks him again across the slit, sometimes under the ridge, sometimes moves her head from side to side and buries himself in her cheek. He's caught between closing his eyes and losing himself in the exquisite feel of her, and watching her mouth descend upon him, again and again and again.

She releases his hips, and slowly one hand grabs his cock and begins moving up and down in time with her mouth, a firm, slick rocking of her fist. The other hand moves to cup his balls, holding him gently, and as she drags her lips up and down his cock, that hand, that wonderful, magical, _impertinent_ hand sneaks ever-so-carefully to the soft skin behind his balls, and then a little further back, and a little further, and a little further still, until one warm finger is pressed against his opening—and no woman, _nobody_ , has ever touched him there, much less massage it like she does now, tenderly, knowingly, like she is kneading a knotted muscle, or unfurling a closed sail, until he loses all sense of language and is reduced to growling, inhuman noises, all animal, all instinct, all senses alive.

And he can't help it: suddenly his hands are in her hair, pulling her down, urging her to take more and more of himself into her throat. He knows he should restrain himself - he is a gentleman and a knight, after all - but she takes it so beautifully, so hot and wet, the edges of her lips curling in the hint of a smile. And then she hums— _dear Maker_ she hums with his cock buried in her throat, and her finger pushing into his ass, and the sensations nearly unravel him; he's close, so close, his balls tightening, all awareness narrowing, all sensation lost but the hot, wet feel of mouth on cock on tongue on throat, the whiteness, the ecstasy just within reach—

And then her mouth is gone.

She sits back on her haunches.

He whimpers.

"Tsk, tsk," she says. Her lips glisten with her saliva and his pre-come. "I can't have you finishing _that_ quickly. You'll ruin my reputation."

He draws in a ragged breath. Then another.

"Firestarter." _Breathe, Emeric. In and out. You remember how_. "You will be the death of me."

Her smirk is back.

She rises up on her knees and shimmies out of her smalls. Then she takes his calloused, too-large hand in both of hers, and brings it between her thighs.

She is slick. Sodden. _Ready._

For _him_.

" _Oh Maker_ ," he whispers as he gingerly he slips one finger inside. She is warm and wet and alive. " _Make me to rest in the warmest places."_

She arches an eyebrow. "Kinky, Tin Man, even for a Templar."

Emeric says nothing in response, just withdraws his finger slightly and rubs it along her outer edge, slowly tracing her folds and soft curls. He closes his eyes and tries to memorize her exact shape and texture, a geometry he never wants to forget.

She bucks her hips, and stutters once, twice, before she recovers her voice. "Does Elthina know you abuse the Chant so?"

Now it is his turn to smirk.

Holding her gaze, he silently withdraws his finger and brings it to his mouth.

Despite himself, he groans. She tastes spicy. Tangy.

 _Metallic_.

Maker, even her cunt tastes like lyrium.

" _Touch me with fire,_ " he whispers, sucking his finger clean, " _so that I might be cleansed._ "

He expects her to counter with some flip remark, to continue this flirtatious dance of theirs they've spent so many decades mastering. But she doesn't. Instead, like a rabbit eyeing a wolf, she stares at him, very still, a deep blush gradually blooming upon her cheeks.

He wonders if he has pushed too far, if something in his tone betrayed too much, and when he slides his hands along her thighs, it is as much to soothe her as to hold her in place.

At his touch, she blinks and shakes her head slightly, as if dispelling a bad dream.

Surging up, he takes her in his arms, one hand digging into her back, the other cupping her just so, with his thumb pressing gently against her clit. His finger returns to its former purchase, sliding easily into the slick while his thumb rubs wide, lazy ovals on her pearl. Into her opening he traces loose designs: the letters of his name, the letters of hers. If she deciphers the motions, she makes no indication—indeed, makes no intelligible noise at all, apart from the vulgar moans escaping the back of her throat, so loudly they echo off the walls of her chamber.

Feeling impertinent himself now, he slips in another finger, and another, smiling as she gasps and _squeezes_ and bucks against the heel of his palm.

He mouths at a nipple, and she scrabbles at his hair. Bold, playful, he tugs at it with his teeth, teasing it with the tip of his tongue as she did with his cock, and the memory of it makes him bob anxiously against her thigh. Her nipple puckers and hardens as he suckles it, first one, then the other, and she digs her nails into the back of his head to keep him in place, all the while his fingers still circling and teasing and _fucking_ her relentlessly.

She presses into him, all curves and groans and slick cunt, the musky, lyrium-tinged perfume of her sex stuck in his throat like a drug. He grabs her bottom, leans back, pulls her toward him, toward his mouth, desperate to taste her, salivating at the idea of her juices slick on his chin, tangy on his tongue-

Her eyes flutter open.

"No."

He looks up at her quizzically.

"Not—" Her gaze flickers down, vulnerable, hooded. "I-That would be—too much. I'd rather just—you know."

He can feel her rebuilding the wall between them, and so he grabs her hips and pulls her down onto his chest instead, desperate not to lose her, not now, not ever. "Next time then?"

Her smile is crooked and maybe a little sad.

"Of course," she says. "Next time."

He nods and guides her on top of his hips. She bites her lower lip, betraying something, although he can't tell what, because all the years of longing and resolve and common sense melt away the moment he finally slides into her.

He glides in easily, so easily, her hips snug against his. He's felt the embrace of a woman's cunt before, of course, but never one quite so perfect as this—like she was made for this, made for his cock, made for _him_.

"So good," she sighs above him.

Then she lifts her hips up, withdrawing all but the head, at which point he can't take the tease any longer and jerks his hips up to bury himself in her again. So good: so warm and hot and tight and holy, and so very, very _good_.

She rocks against him, slowly at first. On every sway, a little noise, animal and intense, escapes her lips. He too is making sounds that he doesn't recognize, but he doesn't care, not when she's digging her nails under his shoulder blades and squeezing him on every upthrust as she rocks, fierce, lovely, alive.

She turns her head and furrows her brow as if she's working on a particularly complex equation, or translating an ancient Tevinter text.

She is in control, he knows, in total control of him and of _this,_ and all he can do is hold on and trust in her and hope to keep up.

Grabbing his hair, she pulls him against her chest. With a smile he flicks his tongue against a nipple; her startled gasp is muffled by his hair.

Then, still holding onto his head, she starts rocking faster, harder, burying him deeper and deeper. Sweat pools in the gaps between their bodies, their heated flesh sticky and flushed. The motions between them grow more intense and begin to lose their rhythm; they become jerky and indistinct and rushed, and now she's pushing harder and deeper and deeper and harder, and suddenly she is screaming, her skin erupting in blue flame that envelops them both—it doesn't hurt, no, he can barely even sense it; but it's warm and familiar and like soaking his entire body in a lyrium vein; and every hair stands on end, every nerve of his body thrumming and aching; but he can't ask why, he can't wonder why this is because now she is cresting, her perfect, hot cunt milking his cock, practically begging his flesh to join her in release. And it's too much, finally too much—he bucks up into her, tossing his head back onto the pillow, vision narrowing into nothingness, and while everything explodes he jerks out a staccato rhythm against her cunt, screaming something that sounds like her name or _Maker_ or maybe just a broken Nevarran _please._

Then it is over. She collapses against him. He cradles her, hands shaking a little, rubbing small circles along her shoulders and back.

They stay like this, together, one perfect moment, lost in the divide between what is and what could be.

Emeric kisses her shoulder, nuzzles her neck, and thinks fondly, _We are once more than we were._

He's about to tell her as much when exhaustion overtakes him. In fact, he can't remember feeling this tired in his entire life.

She leans back from him slightly – not disentangling, per se, or even peeling her sticky flesh away from his, but just far enough away to look him in the eye. A dazed smile plays at her lips, and her grey-blonde hair stands at a strange angle.

"Firestarter, huh," he says muzzily.

"Hmm," she says, shrugging her shoulders. Her smile fades. She doesn't seem quite as tired as he is. That should be strange. It is strange. But it's hard to think of the reason why. Or to think of anything at all.

She looks as if she's about to say something, but gives up. He doesn't blame her. Suddenly it's so difficult to remember words, or to even stay upright. So instead he leans – _falls_ – back onto her pillow, pulling her down with him, her gray-blonde hair fanning against his chest like a starburst.

He is content.

Mharen's arms snake around him, and she presses her cheek against his heartbeat.

He is happy.

"Emeric," her voice is calm, alert, and very far away, "just know that what whatever happens next, this at least I meant."

He is whole.

He feels himself slipping away into darkness, and just as he's drifting off, a small voice deep inside - a soldier's voice - begins to wonder exactly how and why this fatigue has come on so fast. It reminds him that he is no virgin, that post-coital bliss has never been so intense before, and suggests that if he didn't know better, one might assume Mharen had used a sleeping spell on him—but that would be silly; she's an Elemental mage, not an Entropic one: She starts fires, not illusions. She does not traffic in dreams.

But the small voice – which starts to sound too much like gruff, old Guylian, the prude - reminds him that significant quantities of lyrium can have similar effects, that a large enough dose could drag even a conscious man to the Fade, perhaps even the most resistant of Templars. But he couldn't, no, she wouldn't, not like this, not now…

But all the things he knows or hopes or thinks fall away as sleep claims him at last.

When he wakes, finally, it is hours later, and the first grey fingers of dawn creep through the window. His head pounds. His stomach pitches. His cock and mouth and fingers ache and throb. And Mharen-

Mharen is gone.


	3. You Will Be The Death of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Emeric: Lyrium's a hell of a drug.

"Where is she?"

His voice is ragged, frantic.

"I do not know, Ser Emeric," comes Errol's toneless reply.

He grabs the Tranquil's collar, and shoves the man against the cast iron grates.

"She wasn't at the Morning Chant." He slams Errol against the grates again for emphasis. "Nobody's seen her for almost a day, not even her floormates. _Where is she?_ "

"I do not know," the man chokes out.

Emeric's fists clench, and he notices – can't help but notice, can notice nothing else – how his hands shake and tremble; but he can't quell it, no, he can't make the shivering stop; not because he is cold (after _her,_ he will never be cold again) but because he can't will his flesh to do anything else.

Under the weight of his armor, his flesh aches and stings simultaneously, taut and sensitive and screaming for relief. Everything burns. The insides of his lips. The valleys between his fingers. The flat of the tongue. His hips. His palms. Thighs. Nipples. Cock.

Everywhere.

Everywhere that had touched her.

Everywhere that had marked her—she'd marked him back.

This isn't normal. He knows that much. Mages might employ different… tactics in the bedroll than Templars, but this—this is nonsensical. It's as if she'd drenched herself in lyrium – no, like she'd been carved from the stuff, flesh made animate from rock and fire.

 _You will be the death of me yet, Firestarter._

"Why are you protecting her?" Emeric shouts.

A speck of spittle lands on the man's cheek.

The Tranquil does not flinch.

He doesn't even blink.

"I am not protecting anyone," Errol says flatly.

Emeric hears him speak as if from far away, because now he can only focus on the throb of Errol's pulse at his neck, a subtle pumping against the skin at his collar, regular and even. Deliberate. Methodical. Insulting. Thrump. Thrump. He hates that pulse. _Thrump._ Mocking him. He wants to drag his sword against Errol's neck, to soak these stinging cheeks in Errol's blood. _Thrump._ No – he wants to drown this entire Gallows in blood. Anyone's blood will do. Emeric is boiling alive. Only a sacrifice can save him. And he'll do it, he'll do it, too; anything to cease this agony, to silence his screaming skin. _Thrump._

Errol's pupils dilate, and Emeric feels a burst of shame.

 _Fuck._

He shakes his head once, roughly.

Then he releases the threadbare fabric and brushes off Errol's shoulders with still-trembling gauntlets. "Sorry," he mutters, carefully averting his eyes from the man's neck.

What in the Maker's name has gotten into him?

A part of him already knows. Has known since the moment he tasted her hot, perfect mouth: _lyrium withdrawal._

Why now, he's unsure, but he knows he hasn't had it this bad since Basic Training.

"I have not seen Enchanter Mharen since she vacated the Elemental libraries last night in your custody," Errol continues as if nothing had happened, as if Emeric hadn't almost just slit his throat in a lyrium-deprived rage. "If you do not know her whereabouts, I doubt I can tell you."

 _rage fuck pain blood fuck make it stop make it stop make it fucking stop_

This time, when the anger flares up, he shoves Errol away, as much to protect the poor man as out of disgust for himself. But doing so makes Emeric stumble back a little too, and, off-balance, he reels back several feet into the hallway.

A passing apprentice gives him a startled look, then scampers off.

Errol rights himself slowly, methodically, realigning his posture with precision. "If that's all you require, Ser Emeric," he says, turning to walk away.

"Wait."

Errol pauses. He waits. Not patiently. Not impatiently. Just stands there, docile as a halla. "Yes?"

"You re-shelved the Elemental libraries last night," Emeric gasps. Suddenly it is very hard to breathe in his armor, the metal crushing down on his windpipe, his ribcage. _Breathe, Tin Man. In. Out. In. Out._ "Did you—notice anything peculiar? She-leave a-anything unusual?"

Errol thinks for a moment.

"No."

 _In. Out. In-_

Suddenly he is back on her bed, the scent of lilac and parchment and sex nearly gagging him, her body warm and wet and hot, writhing atop his hips, grinding into his cock and _clenching_ , her cries of ecstasy ringing in his ears and against his mouth and-

Emeric chokes, gasps for air.

But the vision dissipates just as quickly as it came.

"Is something wrong, Ser Emeric?" Errol takes a step torward him. "You look unwell."

 _Fuck._ Emeric drags a hand through his sweaty, greying hair. _I'm too old for this shit._

"Nothing I haven't been through before, Errol." He waves the Tranquil back with a shaky hand. Maker's cock, he hopes these symptoms don't last too much longer, or else he'll be quivering on the flagstones like a Harrowing reject. "What about her books? Did she check out anything—I don't know, not Elemental-y?"

"I do not remember the specific titles." He frowns, not in annoyance - never in annoyance – but rather like the thoughtful look halla sometimes get when they chew their cud. "But I recall Enchanter Mharen had taken out a book on Tevinter geography," the Tranquil puts a finger to his lips, thinking, "as well as several textbooks detailing the thermodynamics of entropic clouds."

 _Entropic clouds?_ That's—that's strange. Why would she have carried a history or an entropy book – much less more than one - from all the way across the Gallows to the Elemental Libraries?

"Are you sure?"

Errol gives him a look that Emeric would swear was disapproving, had anyone other than a Tranquil offered it.

"This is as I recall, yes. I will require Elsa's assistance to reshelve them in her library. The books are still on my desk, should you desire to inspect them yourself before I take them over."

Something flares inside.

A _lead._

A lead means a hope.

A hope of finding Mharen—what, alive? Unharmed? Repentant?

He's not sure.

But for the first time in hours, Emeric smiles.

Errol is Tranquil. He has no intuition. No gut instinct.

But Emeric does.

And his gut instinct is telling him – screaming at him, really – to revisit the last place he saw her.

Well—the last place before _that._

Errol coughs politely, and he realizes that the Tranquil has been standing there for several seconds, still waiting, still expecting to be dismissed. Briefly Emeric wonders what the man was like before the Brand, if he'd chosen the Walking Death, or if First Enchanter Quentin had chosen it for him. Judging from the lines on his cheeks and by his eyes, Errol must have once smiled—and often.

" _The Tranquil are the real abominations,"_ she'd said once. He'd thought she'd been teasing him, so he'd laughed. She hadn't.

"Thanks, Errol. And—I'm sorry."

"No need to thank me." Errol bows and walks unhurriedly away.

But Emeric is already off at a run to the Elemental libraries.

He will find her.

And then.

He will find _answers._


	4. Codes and Puzzle Boxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mharen's always been a puzzle box that Emeric just couldn't unlock.

The main hall of the Elemental libraries is a soaring thing, all dangerous angles and wasted space. Even at mid-day, the light here is muted, for which Emeric is grateful. He's never been the kind of Templar that wears his visor down - but just for today, he'd be willing to make an exception.

Over the entrance doors, large enough to accommodate an entire platoon of Tevinter elephants, there are the usual frescos: prisoners being whipped, prisoners being burned, hanged prisoners, beheaded prisoners. Emeric had always known they were there, of course, in the way that one always knows the sun's still in the sky, but he wonders if he'd ever really _noticed_ them before.

With Mharen's fire still crawling down his skin, it's hard for him to notice anything else.

A few scattered mages case the stacks, no doubt looking for sidelong glances and fluttering eyelashes amidst all the combustion theory and potion recipes. He wonders again how they even possess the time to be tempted by demons, what with all the temptations they manage on their own. Sometimes it seems like Mharen was the only serious one of the lot, so dedicated to her craft — Then again, he thinks sourly as he fights down a brief, vivid memory of imported lilac soap and sex, Mharen had _several_ crafts that she studied, didn't she?

 _Is this real?_

 _It's the only thing that is._

With a sigh, he pinches the bridge of his nose and stomps toward the circulations desk. Oh, he's well aware of where he _should_ be headed—the phylactery vaults, no doubt, the first place any Templar worth his dust would check. And, he promises himself, this is the last stop before he heads downstairs – just as he'd promised himself before he interrogated Mharen's floormates, or her teaching assistant, or Errol. But this is it, truly. This is the last lead he'll chase before giving into his training and common sense. His last chance, and hers.

He's not afraid of what might be down there. He's afraid of what might not be.

Either way, he doesn't want to have to look, because looking means suspicion, and suspicion demands follow-through. No matter what she's done to him, no matter how bad the shakes and rages become – although they're both starting to subside now, thank the Maker – he just doesn't want to believe Mharen capable of it. Flights of fancy are one thing, but she has always been loyal to the Circle, and while he's not foolish enough to believe that also means she has always been loyal to him, somewhere in his mind he'd always sort of hoped it did - or, at least, that there would always be a line she wouldn't cross, not if it meant leaving him behind.

He frowns at the desk, where, just as Errol had said, a stack of books is piled in neat little stacks, their spines matching his descriptions.

The books look thick, academic, and particularly ill-read; and Emeric can't help but squint a little as he reads the titles: _Torment Hexes: Advanced Interrogation Techniques. Practical Physical Models of Death Clouds. Intermediate Curse Thermodynamics. A New Study of Shackling's Second Law of Entropy. The Wizards of War: Famous Entropic Mages (Volume 3: Second and Third Blights). Roads of Thedas: A Tevinter Atlas._ Only a single book appears to have come from this library: _A World Of Only Fire and Tin: Alchemy in the Dragon Age._

"Maker, Firestarter," he mutters. "If you were _that_ bored, you could've just knocked."

Curious, though, that none of the titles seem relevant to Threnhold's problem down at the Bone Pit. The last time corpses had begun to walk, Emeric recalls fondly, he and Mharen had deduced it was the work of a particularly potent blood mage; and solving the puzzle had meant a lot of long nights together in the Restricted Libraries, poring over books that smelled like his grandmother.

Emeric smiles, remembering one particular evening, and the exact pattern her hair had made as it draped across her arms, hiding that she'd fallen asleep on her book, her nose jammed into its spine. Her snore had eventually betrayed her, though.

The smile fades as quickly as it had come.

Idly he flips open the cover the book on top of the stack, _Of Fire and Tin._

A slip of parchment falls out.

It is not written in Mharen's careful hand, but in a blockier, more clinical quill stroke. Words he doesn't recognize, words that may not even be words are carved into the paper like surgical slices, followed by numbers that, frankly, appear to be gibberish:

 _THAIT: 45.2.1.7  
ICT: 5.67.1.4  
ROTATA: 65.26.3.2  
PPMDC: 245.12.12.8  
PPMDC: 341.20.14.9  
TWWFEMV3: 10.82.11.5  
ANSSSLE: 112.18.19.3_

Emeric rolls his eyes.

A code.

How _prosaic._

Mages go through so much trouble to conceal their love letters, he thinks with some bitterness, as if the Templars even cared. Maker, a degenerate like Samson might even help deliver them - so long as he got to read them first.

He might as well go down to the vaults now—

Then he stops.

The note's parchment is the wrong color.

Well, it's the same yellowish, brownish, _parchment-y_ color as any other stock, but he's been around Mharen long enough to see the subtle difference in shade and texture from the Gallows stock that Mharen uses, as if it had been made from a different animal skin. And it looks… familiar.

 _At his approach, she smiles teasingly, but does not look up. If he hadn't been so fixated on her hands, he would've missed it as she slid a small sheaf of parchment under another._

" _You're as stealthy as a Stonefist, Tin Man," she says fondly. "You'd wake even an Archdemon."_

Is this…?

Yes. It must be.

What Mharen had been looking at last night.

Before—

Inside his gauntlets, his palms begin to sweat, and he's not sure if it's another bout of withdrawal or something else.

Like many mages, Mharen had always had a penchant for secret things – trick boxes, secret compartments, gadgets of prestidigitation and illusion. Perhaps her affinity was a consequence of living one's entire life in the presence of others; or perhaps it was just perverse curiosity about how one's livelihood was perceived by the less talented. But over the years she'd collected a wealth of gizmos and whatsits and pulled them all apart, studying them, learning them: her mechanical mind dissecting the exact clockwork that made it possible for the tangible to simply vanish.

 _The easiest place to hide something, Tin Man, is always in plain sight._

Her - _predilection_ extended beyond just physical gadgets; Mharen also adored a good puzzle, and loved to while away a Wintersend evening cracking codes and fiddling with cryptograms. Sometimes she would find secret notes from lovestruck apprentices and, as a favor to the writer, decrypt the contents, then replace the love letter in its cache. "So they can improve," she'd said. "Unfriendly eyes are always watching."

He knows this code, because sometimes when she was bored, she'd read the contents of those letters aloud to him while he was on duty; and sometimes she'd show him how the work could be deciphered – a simple matter really, once you knew the trick: letter for letter swaps, for example, or a quick look-up table, where a given letter/number combination in the code stood for a corresponding book, page number, paragraph, sentence, letter—

Well. _Now_ he is suspicious.

And that means that he must i leave. Now. He must go to the phylactery vaults, check for Mharen's sample, because suspicion requires follow-through. That is his duty. That is his Calling.

He is a Templar.

That is who he is. That is who he chooses to be.

And yet.

And yet he still finds himself grabbing a quill, and spreading the books across the circulation desk with a sweep of his arm, like he was scattering chicken feed; and how convenient that all the ones he needs are evidently right here, waiting for him; and thank the Maker for Errol's inability to shelve a book that isn't of his domain; and here is the first letter, and there is the next; and it's coming together so quickly now because the code isn't the point; it was never the point - the point was to make it so obvious it would be overlooked, to hide it in plain sight, because Mharen is so brilliant and always has been and always will be.

The code is simple, and so is the message. It spells a single word.

 _TONIGHT_

What a daft old man he's been.


	5. Hidden In Plain Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of phylacteries and peeling paint: The plot thickens!

Breath in his throat, Emeric races along the grey flagstones, down the spiraling stairs, down, down, down to the phylactery vaults. Blood thrums in his ears. His sweaty skin sticks to the back of his plate. He's been running a lot today, it seems, and that makes him feel like the rookie with the backwards pauldrons again, albeit now with creaky knees and a stitch in his side he swears was never there before. But now time is of the essence, even though Mharen has been missing for almost a day, so he shakes off his embarrassment and hurt pride and runs even faster, painfully aware that everything he never knew he feared is coming to pass.

He still doesn't want to know what he'll find in the vault, but he knows that he needs to be the first to see it. That anyone else making the discovery would cut Emeric deeper than her flight in the first place.

The Gallows phylactery vaults aren't heavily guarded, not like the ones in in Starkhaven or Tantervale; he's heard Calenhad even keeps its phylacteries off-site in Denerim, Maker only knows why - as if Ferelden were some tourist destination for maleficarum and not a sleepy backwater steeped in its own dogshit.

Guylian has talked about upping the security details here for years, but Threnhold's draconian budget cuts to the Chantry have put increased patrols of the question. And before today Emeric would've said that was okay, that it was just Guylian's paranoia talking: After all, only a handful of mages run away from the Gallows each year, and most usually come back within a day or two, crying for a warm bed and their spellbooks. (Maker, even the tranksget their own cells; the Templars sure aren't so lucky.) But now, the small, bitter part of him is starting to think that maybe, maybe Guylian has a point.

He turns one last corner, and there it is: the great soaring gate that leads to phylactery vaults. Above the riveted, iron door is a massive frieze that depicts heretics in various states of incineration and embalmment. The door's handle and keyhole is set into the die-cast rictus of a horned skull, possibly of Qunari or demon origin.

Maker, this place is morbid sometimes.

This afternoon, Ser Thrask is on duty. Perfect. He's a nice enough man, if a little too trusting for his own good – one reason Emeric started inviting him to his weekly Diamondback games.

"Thrask," Emeric says with a small nod, clasping his hands together so they won't shake. Thrask returns the gesture. "Mind letting me in?"

"Sure," says the red-haired man, and he doesn't ask Emeric why, even though he's supposed to; he doesn't even shrug his shoulders or quirk his mouth, and Emeric makes a mental note to refrain from slipping Thrask the dummy Diamond at next week's game.

As Thrask fiddles with his key ring, Emeric can't help but feel he owes the man some polite conversation. "How's the family?" he says, awkwardly.

"Good." Thrask smiles. "We celebrated Olivia's sixth nameday last week."

Emeric smirks back, thinking of the little pigtailed girl with the outsized voice. "Did you cave in and get her that pony she wanted?"

Thrask laughs, a deep, convivial thing that resonates throughout the hall.

"No, but we did get her a tabby." Thrask inserts the key into the lock, and for one brief moment, Emeric worries – hopes – that the lock has rusted shut and Thrask won't be able to turn the key. But of course the lock gives, and the door swings open. Thrask turns back to Emeric. "She's already taken to calling the poor mouser Meowthina and has picked out pink ribbons for his paws. Pink! _Daughters,_ " he says, rolling his eyes.

"Don't worry. He'll learn to love his tea parties." Despite himself, Emeric's smile creeps up to his eyes. "I swear, that girl of yours can cast a spell on everyone she meets. Kittens included."

Thrask shrugs away his embarrassed, fatherly pride.

"Thanks," Emeric says, striding into the vault, but the door closes behind him before he can hear Thrask's reply.

The phylactery vault is an old dungeon, of course, permanently magicked to provide cold storage for the hundreds of tiny blood vials stacked in here like so many new recruits. He searches the stacks for her catalogue number – he'd memorized it long ago, after she was late coming home from a Hightown masque gig; _just in case_ , he'd told himself at the time, never realizing that one day he'd learn that _just in case_ s tended to become self-fulfilling prophecies.

He finds her number.

He blinks.

Her phylactery.

 _It's still there._

But she's gone. He _knows_ it. He knows Mharen, and knows that if she wanted to run away – _if?_ what is he even _thinking? -_ she isn't the careless or half-committed sort to leave behind the one thing that could lead the Templars straight to her whereabouts. She's smarter than that. _Better_ than that.

So the phylactery is a lie. It has to be.

Unless—

Could she have been kidnapped?

The thought makes the shakes return violently, his skin running hot and cold as he clenches every joint in his hands until the insides of his gauntlets tear open his palms. _Maker._ He'd thought withdrawal-induced rage had been bad; now he can barely focus his vision or corral his thoughts, every cell in his body screaming at him to draw his blade and drown this entire city in blood until-

 _No._

Anger won't get her back.

But looking will.

He picks up the vial and opens the stopper, sniffing long and deep of the contents.

In Basic, every Templar learns how to read blood, to suss out the unique scent of a person from the rest of the genetic goop swirling around in the fluids. Libertarians like to call it blood magic, but Guylian swears that's just separatist propaganda – this technique requires no entry to the Fade, so there can be no demons to bargain with, no abominations created. Emeric isn't sure what to believe, and right now he doesn't care, only as long as it works.

He draws back.

Something's wrong.

The scent in this vial: It is parchment and ink and imported Orlesian soap; it is blonde-grey hair spilling out like a cloudburst over forearms, and sunlight through the Library windows, and honey eyes impossibly dotted with moss-green flecks. It is a clever laugh, a puzzle box opened, a joke he's never sure he's quite gotten. It is her. _Mharen_. Everything he wants. Everything he needs.

But at the same time, it isn't her – at least, not as he knew her last night. The scent is off, in some imperceptible way; like a compass that points a few degrees away from north, or like changing every fifteenth word in the Chant. If he hadn't seen her last night, he wouldn't even know the difference, but this – this is… different. Wrong, somehow. Misdirected.

But it's all he's got.

He picks it up and leaves the room, salutes Thrask on his way out, and once he turns the corner, he takes another sniff of the vial.

The ink-and-parchment-and-puzzle scent singing in his bones tells him to go right, but a slight prickling of the skin along his left forearm tugs him the other way, back behind the vaults –where he knows the corridor leads to a dead end.

But Emeric doesn't believe in dead ends, in cold trails or locked doors, so he ignores the song and follows his goosebumps down the hallway, around the corner, out of earshot of Thrask and anyone else.

The prickles take him to a door in the middle of the corridor he has never noticed before. (And why would he? He never comes down here, not if he can help it.)

It's a simple door. Wooden. Paint peeling in spots. No keyhole.

Emeric sticks out his tongue and tastes the air. Apparently, the door is locked, but with only the most elementary of magical wards. He wonders why anyone even bothered.

He stares at it.

Why _did_ anyone bother?

Why would a door in the phylactery vaults be so easy for mages and Templars alike to open?

Most people wouldn't even notice such a door, so simple and unadorned, splintered and chipped along the outer jamb. Those who did notice it would probably just ignore it anyway, because it is so unremarkable: no bolts, no keys, nothing physical, nothing indicating real value, not like with the phylactery vaults.

 _The easiest place to hide something, Tin Man, is always in plain sight._

He lets out a quick Cleanse and, with the butt of his blade, smashes in the door for good measure.

Behind the door are a few stray sacks, some crates, and a simple trap door. A storage unit, perhaps, but nothing seems dusty or disused; it's as if everything was placed here yesterday.

Emeric bends down to the trapdoor, and the skin on his arm prickles until, unable to fight it any longer, he slides a finger under his gauntlet and rubs at the itch.

As he's examining the door for a latch, he notices a loose flagstone and, almost as an afterthought, pries it up.

Under the flagstone is a slip of parchment, in that same slight off-color as the note in the Library. The ink is bold and the parchment unsoiled, despite being crammed underneath a flagstone for who knows how long.

The note is in Mharen's hand.

His hand trembles a little as he begins to read.

" _Ancient Tevinter lore is hard to come by, but there's history to be found here in Kirkwall, the city once home to the Imperium's slave trade…"_

What is this? A ransom letter? A scrap from her spell books? He reads on.

" _What answers does Kirkwall hold? Why look here instead of Perivantium or Vol Dorma? The Imperium does not give up its secrets easily. Even with the magisters centuries dead, our journey is perilous."_

Emeric narrows his eyes at the strange text. This is—nonsense. But the contents aren't important; she must have left this here as a clue, a trail for him to follow, to help track down her and her kidnappers and see her safely returned.

" _Here on the dock of the Gallows, we renew our vows. And should we fail, search for the markings of the Band of Three."_

On the parchment is a strange sigil. If he squints, he can make out three intertwined letters:

 _F._

 _V._

And _M._

He descends the trap door.


End file.
